Season of Hope
by idearlylovealaugh
Summary: When darkness and doubt threaten to consume us, love can shine a light. A Shell Cottage missing moment and a glimpse of a happier future written for the 2017 Romione Secret Santa exchange on tumblr.


_Originally written for Alice aka_ _stilinski-martin for the 2017 Romione Secret Santa exchange on tumblr - and not by JKR._

April in Cornwall could be cold and raw, but it was a mild, bracing day that saw two figures picking their way slowly along the rocky coastline, narrow shadows trailing behind them. Over course of the year Ron gotten used to never knowing the date, but he guessed they had been staying with his brother and his wife for a least two weeks. And though the days were slowly, subtly lengthening, these afternoons that they walked together along the shore never seemed long enough.

Fleur had found an old cardigan for Hermione to wear to ward off the chill, though for the life of him Ron couldn't imagine who it had originally belonged to. The baggy mustard-colored garment didn't look like something Fleur would wear, but the yarn was surprisingly soft as his hand brushed her arm, fingertips tingling at the possibility of accidental contact with her skin.

They walked in comfortable silence toward the end of the beach, Hermione bending down every so often to pick something up and tuck it into the pocket of her sweater. At the end of the stretch Ron waited to see if Hermione showed any indication of tiring, but instead of turning to retrace their steps back to the cottage, Hermione stood gazing out at the ocean, inhaling deeply. The late afternoon sunlight wasn't yet strong enough to warm the sand, so Ron pulled a clean handkerchief from his pocket and transfigured it into a blanket. The light wind caught the corners as he spread it on the beach, flicking grains of sand onto it's surface no matter in which direction he tried to angle it. Worried she might think that _he_ might think her weak, he sat down first, leaving plenty of space next to him. It frustrated him, not knowing how to help her, but he knew his frustration was easily matched by her own.

Hermione settled down onto on the faded blue and white stripes, tucking her legs underneath her and leaning into him ever so slightly. She fished in the pocket of the cardigan and produced a few of the shells she had gathered, miniature swirls of milky white, muted orange and soft purple. Ron watched as she laid them out on the blanket in a neat row, smallest to largest.

"We spent one Christmas on the French Riviera when I was younger," she said quietly, in a tone laced with sadness that Ron had come to recognize on the rare occasions she spoke of her parents. "I must have been five or six years old. My father told me how these shells were an example of the golden ratio, a circumstance in mathematics that occurs when the sum of two quantities is in the same ratio to the larger quantity as they they are to each other."

She picked up a creamy shell, tracing it's curves. "He showed me how the ratios could be used to make rectangles and spirals and how you could find examples of it in nature, if you learned to see it - in the pattern of flower petals and seeds, the structure of crystals, even in music and art." Her face was bent toward the small object in her hands, but her gaze was far away. "I didn't believe him at first. I couldn't imagine that such a principle could hold true for every shell, much less all the other phenomena he mentioned. I think I must have collected a hundred shells and checked every one of them."

"That sounds about right," Ron remarked with a small grin, thinking that Professor Trelawney, at least, could testify to Hermione's insistence on hard evidence.

Hermione huffed out a breath that might've been an attempt at a laugh or a indignant snort had her heart been in it. "It was a lovely holiday," she added softly after a moment. "Though perhaps a little strange for being at the shore."

"I couldn't imagine being anywhere other than home at Christmas," Ron admitted. "Would've been a lot for Mum and Dad to travel with us, I guess," he added self-consciously. "Even after Bill and Charlie had moved out, they still came back for the holidays. We always spent it at the Burrow. Until Hogwarts, that is."

"You stayed with Harry that first year," Hermione stated simply, looking up at him with warm eyes.

"Yeah, well, Mum and Dad were going to Romania," he replied dismissively.

"Mmm," she agreed, a smile playing at the corners of her mouth. "Nothing interesting about dragons."

He silently cursed his ears as they began to burn under her steady gaze. Of course part of him had wanted to go with his parents. It wasn't everyday you got to see a real dragon preserve! A chance to see if the wild stories that Charlie always regaled them with were true. Charlie, the cool, good-natured older brother that didn't really take the piss that much and whom he rarely got to see. But how could he leave Harry to spend the holidays at Hogwarts alone, knowing that he'd be by himself in the dorms on Christmas morning? Waking up with no family, no mates, maybe not even any presents? It wasn't a choice, really.

He groped around for a way to deflect her unearned admiration. "The beaches in France must be a lot different than the ones here," he said, feeling the foolishness of the remark.

She gave him a quick, knowing smile and then looked out over the horizon. "Very much so," she affirmed, allowing him to change the subject. "At least where we were staying. The water was beautiful, but the beaches were very built-up and crowded. Nothing like this." Her eyes drifted up the coastline, the expanse of sand broken up by rocky outcroppings stretching up into sprawling green fields. "It's so lovely here, so vast and wild," she mused quietly.

"It must have been beautiful at Christmas."

Ron stiffened, and the breeze that felt gentle only moments ago seemed to knife through his jumper. They had spent so much time together in the past month as she recovered, stealing away to the shoreline so often after meals or between meetings that Ron would've felt guilty if he hadn't valued every moment he spent with her above all the galleons he had ever laid eyes on. Their walks together weren't silent, but they mostly spoke of lighthearted memories and old shared jokes. It had seemed to Ron that they had an unspoken agreement to avoid certain topics - the sorts of things they had discussed in the tent, in agonized whispers under the shadow of the locket. Horcruxes, what might be happening at Hogwarts, the safety of their families. And certainly, the time they spent apart.

His jaw clenched as he stared out at the surf. Her statement didn't really require an answer, but he knew that changing the subject, leaving that unasked question unaddressed, would be the coward's way out. Hermione liked to talk through feelings, he knew - never content to let anything rest, intent on wringing explanations for indescribable emotions out of the most unwilling participants. But this was more than that, more even than satisfying that deep-seated part of her nature. Talking about this, his greatest regret, was a way to show her that he had grown beyond that person who closed himself off and walked away from her in his lowest moment.

"It… I… I don't really know, to be honest," he choked out in a rush. He felt her eyes on him, and wondered if he would see surprise there if he had the courage to meet them. He stared hard at the worn knee of his denims, feeling the guilt and regret that still roiled so close to the surface. "It couldn't be, to me. All I wanted was to be back in that miserable sodding tent with you and Harry."

The dull roar of the ocean was white noise in his ears as waves of self-loathing crashed over him. He fisted the blanket in his hand, knuckles grinding against the rough sand.

"I would've done anything - _anything_ \- to get back to you." The memory of her awful sobs that night seemed to mix with the screams he had heard in the Malfoy dungeon, clouding his mind and his ability to articulate with the overwhelming sense of failure. "And now I- I…"

His voice caught in his throat. This had been a mistake. He could never wash away what he had done and he saw, with terrible clarity, that it would always mark his life, that he could never…

He felt a sudden warmth on his fingers as her hand covered his own, squeezing gently. For a moment the shock was so great that time seemed to stand still, but eventually he looked down at her upturned face and was overwhelmed. There was understanding in her expression; an openness that she hadn't shared with him in the past few months. He had been so adamant with himself about the scope of his intentions, not daring to consciously hope for anything beyond regaining her friendship and maybe, someday, even her trust. Yet now in her eyes he saw that trust, a bit bruised and battered perhaps, but still solid and substantial, and beyond even that an intensity that suggested the depth of feelings that he held for her. The connection he felt to her, that honesty and the possibility of something more, gave him the strength and words to continue.

He took a deep breath, turning his hand palm up under hers and lacing their fingers.

"I will _never_ leave you again, not as long as you want me here," he said fiercely.

He felt in that moment that even though there could be circumstances beyond his control that could render such a promise impossible, somehow she believed him; that even though it was a vow he couldn't rationally make, she accepted and even welcomed it, and that understanding fueled a burning hope in his heart under the pale April sun.

XOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXO

This was it. Today was the day.

It felt like he had been thinking about it for ages, really. He had gone over hundreds of different plans and scenarios - let's be honest, strategies - for the asking bit. A number of ideas had been discarded as too public, too cheesy, or too impractically distant (there was no bloody way he was waiting until her birthday or anything like that). George had, disastrously, caught sight of the ring and had spent the better part of a month gleefully inventing increasingly ludicrous and complicated set-ups, several of which involved serious violations of the Statute of Secrecy or, suspiciously, required him to dress in embarrassing costumes.

Eventually he had settled on a nice night in, a specially prepared dinner, and (hopefully) a heartfelt proposal.

He looked around their tiny flat, which had been cheerfully decorated for the holidays. Hermione had skillfully draped bits of tinsel on the bookshelves and over the doorways, and the two of them had tightly packed every bit of their furniture into one side of the lounge (as well as magically shrinking one chair down to nearly nothing, temporarily) to allow room for a small Christmas tree decorated with fairy lights, baubles, and ornaments. The effect was warm and festive and, he hoped, passably romantic.

He poked his head into the kitchen, mentally surveying the details. Chicken dressed and in the oven. Bottle of champagne chilling in the fridge. (One slug of Ogden's to calm his nerves, already in his stomach.) Potatoes and green beans under a warming charm. Titchy kitchen table set with all their best (read: matching) cutlery and dishware and even a tablecloth. Everything was set; all he had to do was wait.

Right. Just wait. Wait and think.

He sank down on the faded sofa and looked around the flat again, which took all of a second. It wasn't very grand, especially as the setting for a moment that they would surely be asked to recount in detail to various friends and family members. Granted, George's ideas had been ridiculous - he pretty sure that the muggle queen's palace had pretty tight security, even with the use of magic - but at least they showed some forethought. But then again, he thought uneasily, Hermione wouldn't really want all that fuss, right? And no one knew her better than he did - or should, anyway.

Speaking of, had Hermione seemed a little tense at lunch today? His knee started bobbing up and down unconsciously. She had rushed into the canteen ten minutes late with a face like thunder, and although it had cleared as she saw him and she brushed off his concern, he sensed that something had put her back up. He knew that she had been feeling particularly frustrated with her job lately; maybe there had been some kind of incident that morning that put her in a rotten mood. It didn't seem right to spring anything on her if she was already in a strop.

Besides, now that he thought about it, would she think that it was too soon to get married? Granted, they had been together for two and half years and lived together since Hermione had finished Hogwarts, they both had relatively stable jobs that paid their bills and allowed them to sock a little bit away each month in savings. He _knew_ there was no one else for him and the timing felt right, but he had been with Hermione long enough to realize that some muggles - especially posh, well-educated muggles like the Grangers - did these things on a fairly different timeline. He had pretty much worked out what he was going to say, but maybe he should put in a few points about the advantages of marrying young - or at least anticipate a few of the objections she was sure to bring up.

Maybe today wasn't the day, after all. Maybe it wouldn't hurt to wait a little longer, come up with a _really_ good plan. Not as long as her birthday of course, but just until he could make few more arrangements, think up some convincing arguments -

The sound of footsteps just outside the door startled him out of his thoughts. There was a quick jangle of the knob and he stood reflexively as the door began to open.

"Ron, I'm - oh!" Hermione called as she swung the door in. She stopped short and seemed momentarily surprised to find him standing in the lounge, looking directly at her. "Is everything OK?"

Ron gulped, feeling the dryness of his throat. "Yeah, yeah," he answered, not entirely sure who he was reassuring. "Er, how was the rest of your day?"

"Not very good, honestly," she replied, setting her satchel by the door and shaking snow out of her hair. "Whitewig is trying to bury my findings about the Hampshire house elves, I'm sure of it. It's absolutely infuriating!" Ron watched as she unwound her scarf and worked the buttons of her wool coat, a deep line creasing her brow. "I'm going to have to completely reframe my findings and request a hearing with the DMLE if there's to be anything done about it."

"Suppose you're going to spend the evening working on it, yeah?" Ron asked with a sinking feeling. His mind raced as he tried to work out whether he could play off the dinner as something Molly sent over.

"Actually, no." She finished hanging her coat neatly on the peg and turned to him with a grin. "I'm going to try to put it out of my mind for the night. I _will_ have to go over my files at some point this weekend, but it won't help anything to fixate on it all night." Her eyes sparkled mischievously. "Somebody rather clever taught me that."

Ron was vaguely aware that he was still gaping at her, but he couldn't seem to catch up to his own thoughts. She was so passionate, so driven - she had made his life so immeasurably better, and he marveled again that he was able to give even a little bit of that back to her.

"It smells delicious in here," she continued, oblivious. She took a step closer to him, reaching out to wrap her fingers around the hand hanging limply at his side. "Did you make something special?"

He could feel the tide of doubt ebbing away, leaving only his certainty that this was the person he wanted to spend his life with. Everything he had ever needed was standing right in front of him in a small, somewhat shabby London flat. It was amazing that just the sound of her voice and the gentle pressure of her hand made everything else fall away, the way her belief in him shored him up and strengthened his own resolve.

And gods, she was gorgeous, lit by the warm glow of the fairy lights. Reflections off the colorful baubles winked and danced behind her, and for a single moment his attention was caught by a white shape directly over her left shoulder - a single delicate shell, strung with a golden cord through a small hole that had naturally worn in it's surface.

"...Ron? Should we go through?"

He focused on her again, looking at him with love and happiness (and, yes, maybe a little bit of concern), and the words seemed to find their way back to his throat.

"Yes," he said firmly, a smile slowly spreading across his face as he held her gaze and reached into his pocket.

"But first I have something to ask you."


End file.
